Black Market
by RainbowBetty
Summary: With time running out for Dean, Sam finally finds someone who is willing to cut a deal. But the price is higher than he expected. Late season 3. Complete!
1. Chapter 1

**Part 1**

"You don't know what you want until you find it

I believe you'll tell me so."

_**—Lilies of the Valley,**__ David Byrne_

**Chapter One**

Sam pulled the collar of his jacket up and ducked his head, seeking the cover of anonymity with his elbows nonchalantly perched against the grease-slicked counter of the dimly lit Chinese restaurant where he sat. He resisted the urge to go into his pocket again after the name and address written on hotel stationary. This was the place. He didn't need to check. And he knew the name of the man he was supposed to be meeting.

The constant drum-beat of rain sounded against steam-fogged windows, the air inside thick with cooking oil. It was almost too warm, but Sam kept his jacket pulled close around himself, feeling that it provided an extra barrier between himself and the other patrons there. It didn't seem to matter, though. They ignored him as much as he ignored them.

"Sam."

A hand flattened on the counter beside him, accompanying the resonant voice, and Sam startled, highly annoyed at himself for being caught off guard. He looked up warily into the man's face, his kind eyes deep-set and sheltered behind a mop of gray hair. Sam started to stand in greeting, but the man reached out and laid a firm hand on his shoulder, effectively lowering him back into his seat. "Good to see you made it, son," he said, shaking rain water from his coat and nodding to the storm outside. The overcast skies blocked out nearly all of the mid-afternoon daylight, bringing on the streetlights and making it feel much later than it was.

"You're…" Sam frowned. Suddenly, he wasn't sure what sort of meeting he'd been expecting, but this elderly man in a fraying, navy blue raincoat was definitely throwing him off.

"That's right," he confirmed, taking Sam's hand and squeezing it. "Derril Anderson. Broker." He added with a grin, his yellowed teeth clustered together behind dry lips.

"Right," Sam nodded, returning the handshake. "Thank you for… for setting this up."

"Pleasure's all mine, Sam," he said, taking a seat beside Sam at the counter. "You order?"

"Uh, no." Sam glanced around nervously. "I wasn't… But you go ahead."

Derril plucked a menu from the metal rings that held a stack of them upright, giving it a cursory glance before tossing it back down on the counter's surface. "You understand the terms from my client? You have any questions?"

Sam took a breath. _Client._ It was a strange thing to call a vampire. A strange situation to find himself in at all.

"What about Dean?" he said finally.

Derril raised his eyebrows, looking curiously entertained. "What about him?"

"You need to give me some kind of assurance," Sam insisted, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. "If I agree to this—"

"I was under the impression you already _had_ agreed to it."

The pretense of fatherly warmth was suddenly gone from the man's voice, and when Sam looked up again his deep-set eyes reflected a solid, gleaming black leaving Sam feeling cold to the very depths of his soul.

"I need to know Dean will be safe."

Derril laughed. "There's no such thing, Sam," he chided. "You know that."

"That's not what I meant."

"Your arrangement with my client voids the contract on Dean's soul. Yes."

Sam licked his lips, his mouth suddenly gone dry. "And you definitely have the power to do that? No tricks. No surprises?"

"You get what you asked for, explicitly. Your brother's soul in the free and clear. I'm not in the business of making people unhappy. I work on commission. I have a referral-based clientele."

Sam studied the older man, searching him for any sign of deception. Demons lied, he knew that, but this was different. He finally had something to bargain with. Something he could use. His blood was special. One of a kind. Azazel's. At length, he nodded and said, "Okay. Yes."

"And you understand the terms. You agree to them?"

Sam nodded again once, sharply and resolutely, his eyes never leaving the old man.

Derril slid smoothly to the side, easing his weight off the bar stool to stand in front of Sam again. He held out his hand with a sly smile. "You should be glad my division seals these things with a handshake instead of a kiss. Just as binding, but no bodily fluid exchange required. Far more sanitary, if you asked me."

Sam hesitated only a fraction of a second before slipping his own hand again into the warm, leathery palm of the older man and clasping it tight.

"All right, then. Done." Derril looked down at himself and patted the pockets of his raincoat, feeling for something he was carrying with him. Then he found it, and extracted a plastic, zip-lock back filled with what appeared to be medical equipment. Syringes, tubing, collection bags, antiseptic wipes. He handed it to Sam. "This will get you started. You know your way around a needle, or do I have to show you?"

"I know how to take blood," Sam said with quiet resolve, taking the bag and examining its contents.

"Good boy. Now, I believe there's a restroom behind the kitchen you can use."

Sam looked up, surprised. "What, now? Here?"

Derril shrugged with a grin that was all yellow teeth and feigned apologies. "First payment is due upon time of signing," he explained.

Sam turned the plastic bag of supplied over in his hands. There was a sealed transfusion needle, alcohol pads, gauze. Everything he would need.

"That's a six-week supply," Derril said, anticipating Sam's question.

Sam looked up at him sharply. "Six _week?"_

"Yes. Week. One pint of your blood per week in exchange for your brother's soul."

"But that's not what you…" Sam felt sick. "_One per month,_ that's what you said before." He couldn't hand over a pint of blood every week, it wasn't possible. That would kill him.

"The terms are per week."

Sam inhaled, understanding hitting him all at once that he wasn't the one with the leverage. "I'm not any good to you—to whoever you work for—dead."

Derril snorted. "You're a tough kid, you'll get along just fine. I suggest you do whatever it takes to stay alive. Because if you die, if you kill yourself, if you _let_ yourself get killed, it constitutes a reversal of our agreement."

"Meaning what?"

"Dean's soul reverts to the original holder."

"No!" It came out as a shout, and he glanced around nervously, consciously bringing his anger back under control. "No, you can't do that. You can't change the terms like this, it's not fair."

"I'm not changing anything, Sam. It's not my fault you misunderstood. You know, when a guy is desperate sometimes he'll just hear what he wants to hear."

Sam clenched his teeth, the muscle along the side of his jaw jumping in frustration, deliberately not letting himself think about what this meant, what he was agreeing to. It was just blood. A pint of blood every week for the rest of his life. In exchange for Dean's life, Dean's _soul._ As long as he could manage to stay alive. It was worth it. It was even fitting, in a way. Appropriate. Poetic. Dean bought back his life and now he would use the very life flowing through his veins to buy back Dean's.

"When we collect from you each week, I'll check in," Derril assured him. "Make sure you have all the needles you need." He glanced at his watch, and then back up at Sam pointedly. "Anything else?"

Sam stood up, pulling his jacket straight, and walked past the man toward the back of the restaurant, feeling black eyes follow him as he went. He pushed open a grimy, wooden door bearing a plastic sign that said "restroom," giving it a shove closed when the door stuck in the door frame and refused to shut properly.

He locked the door and hung his jacket on a hook. Then he sat down heavily on the seat of the toilet with the plastic bag of supplies balanced on his knees. He unbuttoned the cuff of the sleeve on his left arm and rolled the flannel cuff up over his bicep.

He could feel his pulse starting to pick up speed, and he took in a slow, deep breath which echoed too loudly in his ears within the close confines of the small bathroom. "Okay," he said out loud, to steady himself, even though his voice was nothing more than a whisper. "No big deal. This is nothing."

He assembled the needle set, attached the tubing to the needle and the collection bag. Then he pulled out another length of rubber tubing and tied it securely around his upper arm, snapping tight and trapping the blood in his veins. He made a fist, then flexed his hand a few times, watching the veins rise under his skin on the thin, inner skin of his arm. He took another steadying breath, ripped open an alcohol swab and ran the pad in a rough circle over the inside of his elbow.

He flexed his fist a few more times, and forced himself not to flinch as the needle bit through his skin and punctured his vein, releasing a stream of red down through the tube and into the bag.

It burned as the vein emptied, sending a tingle down his arm as the trapped blood escaped. He struggled not to think of how many times he and Dean had fought to keep blood _in._ This was different, he promised himself. _This is necessary._ This was for Dean. A blood sacrifice of sorts. One that he was gladly willing to make to keep his brother alive.

He watched the bag fill to the exact measure marked along the side. One pint. He pinched off the tube and gratefully slid the needle out of his arm, fumbling for a cotton ball to staunch the trickle of blood that followed when he did. He felt an odd sense of accomplishment. A bit dizzy and strange, but overall fine. He could do this. This would work. He would save his brother. He packed away the tubing and threw away the needle and opened wrappers, everything wrapped securely and secretively in a wad of toilet paper. He rolled his sleeve back into place and put his jacket back on, and tucked his pint of blood into the inner pocket.

He could do this.

He nodded to Derril, still seated at the counter, and Derril rose to follow him outside, turning the collar of his raincoat up.

They stood for a moment under the awning out of the rain, off to the side, backs turned to the darkening, overcast street and the few passers-by moving from streetlight to streetlight under the canopy of umbrellas. Sam handed Derril the sealed bag of blood, which Derril quickly slid into his own pocket. Then he reached out and shook Sam's hand again.

"See you again, next week. I'll contact you about the drop-off." Derril looked at him critically. "Go drink some juice or something," he suggested. "Don't stick around here. I have client-side business."

"Right." Sam blinked hard against a wave of dizziness, feeling a pit of nausea settle in his stomach. He brought his shoulders up protectively as he stepped away from the cover of the awning, wincing as a stream of cold rain water made its way past the collar of his jacket and down his back. He took a few steps down the shadowed, unlit alley between the buildings, heading for the back lot where he'd parked the Impala.

About midway through the alley, he turned and pressed his back against the rough brick of the building wall, watching with great interest as Derril warmly greeted another figure coming toward him. The streetlights caught the edges of their outlines, illuminating their features with stark splashes of harsh light.

Derril gestured animatedly as he spoke, while the newcomer – tall and ominous, standing solemnly in a dark trenchcoat with long, dark hair pulled back from his face – barely moved, except to infrequently nod. After a moment, Sam saw Derril take the bag of blood from his jacket, which elicited a tightly controlled reaction from the taller man. His long, pale fingers reached out and closed possessively around the commodity, and he leaned down to say something to Derril.

Even from such a distance, Sam recognized the expression of blatant fear that passed over Derril's face before he recovered his used-car-salesman demeanor and enthusiastically shook his client's hand, gesturing with both hands in what Sam was sure were platitudes of assurance.

The taller figure nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets and turning to part ways. As he did so, he glanced between the buildings, into the alley where Sam held his vantage point.

He looked directly at Sam, caught his eye, and smiled.

* * *

_To be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"You look like crap," Dean told him bluntly as he came in from the rain. "You coming down with something?"

"What? No," Sam muttered. "Maybe. I don't know. I'm fine." He stripped off his wet coat, laying it across the back of a chair and running a hand through his damp hair.

He was still nauseous, but he was almost positive it wasn't from the blood loss. The reality, the finality of the deal he'd made, had hit him on the drive back to their room, and he wasn't surprised to find himself reacting to it on a physical level. But that didn't mean he couldn't do a better job of hiding it.

"Huh," Dean grunted in acknowledgement. "So… is that a 'yes?' You shoved so many different answers in there I lost track."

Sam shook his head, depositing his gun and the car keys on the table by his bed. "I'm fine," he repeated in a stronger voice. "You try hauling ass all over town in this weather looking for a book on early tribal purification rites, see how great _you_ look."

If Dean ever found out about this, it would kill him.

Dean laughed. "No freaking way, dude. You get it, though?"

"No, nobody had it."

His first order of business was going to be to stash the supplies someplace hidden. A task that was easier said than done, the way his brother always watched him like a hawk and knew every move he made.

"I'll ask Bobby to check his basement again."

"It's fine, Dean. I'll get it online. Have it sent to Bobby's."

"Whatever." Dean tucked the cloth he was using to clean the guns back into the case and started busily reassembling their components. "You eat yet?"

"No, I'm not really hungr—" Sam caught himself. He was going to have to start eating better. He needed protein. And anything with iron. He should probably take a multivitamin, too. "Actually," he said, "I could go for a burger."

Dean stopped in mid-assembly and looked at him. "What?"

Sam backpedaled. "It's not that big a deal, Dean. It's just, I've been running around in crappy weather all day and I don't think a salad's gonna do it for me. That's all."

Dean smirked and looked back down, sliding the chamber of the gun into place with a satisfying click. "My little sister's finally all grown up with a man's appetite. About damn time."

Sam rolled his eyes and picked up his laptop. He opened a browser and started a search on ancient tribal rites.

In a second window that he could quickly close if Dean looked over his shoulder, he started a second search. He typed: anemia, blood loss.

Eight weeks. Apparently it took eight weeks to fully recover from losing a pint of blood.

Well, he had seven days.

He'd just have to push himself. He was a Winchester, after all. It was practically hard-coded into him to get by on less than he needed. Need was weakness.

He waited until Dean left the room, taking the guns back out to replace inside the trunk of the car.

The problem was that they had no real privacy from one another, living the way they did. But out of necessity they had both carved out a mutual respect for personal space. Sam pretended not to hear Dean's extracurricular activities in the shower, and Dean in return resisted rooting through Sam's bag for clean socks. It was the little things.

Knowing that he had several minutes before Dean came back, Sam quickly hopped off the bed and retrieved the plastic bag of incriminating supplies from his jacket. He wrapped one of his dirty t-shirts around it and wadded it far underneath the rest of his neatly folded clean clothes inside his duffle, confident that unless Dean had reason to go through his stuff he wouldn't accidentally stumble across it. He'd need to think of a better long-term solution, as well as a reasonable explanation to give Dean when it was inevitably discovered.

But that could wait. For now, he was feeling confident.

Fantastic, actually. Because his brother wasn't going to Hell.

* * *

It was the middle of the fourth week. They were somewhere in Oklahoma.

Sam leaned heavily against the sink of the gas station restroom with his elbows locked, fighting down the urge to be sick. His breathing felt tight, his pulse racing. Sweat beaded up on the back of his neck as waves of heat swept over him, and he focused on drawing air in and out, focused on the cool feeling of air evaporating sweat from his skin and bringing a rise of goose bumps up over his arms.

He blinked, watching with detached interest as black spots crept over his vision.

A second later, he heard a pounding on the door. He blinked again. Someone was calling his name.

Dean. It was Dean. Why was he on the floor? Shit. He raised himself on his elbows, feeling a sharp pain in the back of his head and an accompanying wave of dizziness and nausea.

"Sammy? You fall in or something?" More pounding. Shit. He quickly struggled to his feet.

"H-hang on!" he called, and turned on the tap water. He had no idea how long he'd been out, but it must have just been a moment. He could tell that Dean wasn't worried yet, just impatient. Otherwise he would have broken down the door.

He leaned over the sink and filled his cupped hands with cold water, splashed it over his face and drove his fingers through his hair. Then he switched off the tap and turned back toward the door, avoiding the sight of his pale reflection in the mirror. He inhaled, pulled a few paper towels from the dispenser, and put his game face back on.

* * *

"You're _sure_ you're okay?"

"Dude!" Sam shrugged irritably, dodging the hand that Dean had brought up to feel his forehead. "Knock it off. I'm fine."

"You're all pale. You look like you have a fever."

Dean's mouth was drawn in a stern _don't-lie-to-me_ line, and his eyes kept darting back over to Sam away from the stretch of flat, nearly empty highway ahead of them.

"Okay, well, I _don't,_ Dean."

"Did you eat breakfast?"

Sam glared, sinking further into the passenger seat. "You were there."

"I don't _watch_ you eat, dude. Did you?"

_"Yes,_ I ate breakfast. I told you. I feel fine."

Dean drove in silence for a few moments. "Well good," he said. "Because we have a job."

"Yeah?"

"Couple of unexplained deaths just east of here, Bobby's thinking could be vamps. What do you say? Go check it out?"

A knot of unease twisted in Sam's stomach. "I don't know."

"You don't _know?"_ Dean looked at him again, this time with more suspicion, before dragging his eyes back to the road. "What do you mean, you don't know?"

There was no reason not to take the hunt, he told himself. Backing off hunting hadn't been any part of the deal he'd made. But somehow, it felt dangerous. As if letting Dean that close to the secret he was keeping, just by coming into contact with the creatures, risked revealing too much. Something could slip. One of them might know too much. Somehow, Dean might find out. And Sam couldn't ever, ever let that happen.

"I don't know," he repeated. "You might… you might be right, actually. I don't think I feel so great."

Dean shook his head. "Bitch, you are a piece of work, you know that?"

"Jerk," he muttered.

Dean glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and reached over to put a hand on his forehead again. This time, Sam closed his eyes and didn't pull away.

* * *

Sam waited until well after midnight to draw blood on the night it was due, just to be sure Dean was asleep.

His heart pounded fast and anxious as he moved past Dean's bed by the door. One hand rested protectively around the sealed bag of blood in his jacket pocket, finding the feel of its fading warmth oddly comforting.

He opened the door only as much as he dared, stealing sideways through the crack and closing it again with an almost inaudible click. Once outside, he exhaled with relief and took in his surroundings. He had barely been out of their room since checking in two days ago. He'd given Dean a line about feeling "flu-ish" and then slept for twelve hours straight. Dean had come and gone a few times, patting him on the leg to check on him, and Sam had irritably waved him off. He knew Dean was doing recon on the vampire nest without him. He knew he should feel guilty about that. He should offer to go along, to have his brother's back.

He hadn't expected to feel this bad, this fast. He needed to suck it up. This was just the way things were now. This was for Dean, and this was _nothing_ compared to Hell, he was sure.

He walked briskly along the broken sidewalk with his hands in his pockets and his head down, stepping over cigarette butts and dented cans, until he reached the designated meeting place. The boarded-up convenience store was about a block from the hotel, a weathered corporate real estate sign swaying on a pole just off the street proclaiming that the lot was for sale. He saw Derril immediately in his ratty blue coat, leaning casually against the nearest corner, half-hidden in shadow. He looked up from examining his fingernails as Sam approached, and flicked his sleeve from his wrist to reveal his watch. He glanced down at the time, saying nothing.

"Sorry," Sam muttered, cursing himself for being so short of breath after such a brief walk. _You're a Winchester. Suck it up. Do better._ He hunched his shoulders and handed over the bag of blood, anxious to be done with the formality and get back to the room in case Dean woke up.

Derril took the bag and hefted it in the palm of his hand. He looked up at Sam, eyes narrowed.

"This is light," he said.

Sam's stomach turned over. "N-no," he stammered. "It shouldn't be. I swear." A trickle of fear ran through him, remembering the black spots in his vision a few days ago. Had he blacked out? Made a stupid mistake?

"This is a problem, Sam. This needs to be corrected."

Suddenly, both of Sam's arms were grabbed from behind. "Hey!" he protested, pulling back hard, and twisting around to see steel-cold eyes and bright, needle-sharp fangs bared in a grin.

Derril closed the distance between himself and Sam in the span of a heartbeat, standing just inches from Sam's face. "Do you think this is a game?" he hissed. There was a mixture of malice and thinly veiled fear in his eyes. "You entered into this agreement willingly. There are _expectations."_

Sam felt a whisper of hot breath against his neck, followed by the slightest graze of teeth. He shivered and tried again to pull away. "It—It's…" he started, his voice wavering. Then he swallowed and started again, forcing a calm into his voice that he didn't feel. "It's all there. I measured it. I don't know why it wouldn't be. Listen, this is some kind of mistake, I swear."

Derril tipped his head pityingly and almost smiled. His gaze shifted to someone in the shadows, someone Sam couldn't see. "Take it out of him," Derril instructed.

"No!" Sam struggled, fighting harder to get free. He felt more hands on him, seizing his shoulder and pulling his head to the side by his hair to expose the artery along his neck. _"No!_ No, no, please." A tiny, insane thought wormed its way to the surface of his desperation, that if by some miracle he survived this, he still needed to be able to hide it from Dean, and a bite on his neck would be impossible to cover up. "Not there!"

He managed to twist away from them and tumbled to his knees, panting hard from the exertion and panic. He held up his hands as they advanced on him again, desperate to protect his neck and any visible skin, quickly rolling up his own sleeve and baring an arm that was already bruised with needle marks. "Please. If you have to…" he pleaded. "Let me—I need to keep it from Dean, he can't know."

It seemed to amuse Derril, because he grinned and nodded to the vamp. "All right. Be sure you leave him alive. He's still on the hook for next week."

Sam steeled himself but still couldn't stop the cry of pain that came as razor-sharp teeth tore into the sensitive skin of his inner arm. It was worse than the stinging pinch of a needle, a hundred times worse, with a vicious suction that drew out blood at an unnatural rate and sent his heart into a frantic race to keep up. His eyes widened in fear as he felt darkness closing in on him, felt himself struggling to breathe, pain crushing his chest. "Stop—!" he gasped, struggling weakly to get away.

And then there was nothing.

When he came to, he found himself alone on the ground in the dark, trembling from the cold and probably shock, he guessed, but alive at least.

With immense effort, he pulled his arms in toward his body, aware that his forehead was still pressing against the hard pavement but not quite able to do more than roll his head to the side. He had never felt more weak. _"Dean,"_ he whispered, more as a way of summoning his own strength than a true call for help. Their room was just a block away. He could make it back. Had to make it back. Then he could sleep. Sleep for days, maybe. He forced his arms under himself, pushing up on muscles that shook like a newborn calf's, his face contorting with the strain.

_Have to do better..._

He almost made it to his knees before he passed out again.

* * *

_To be continued._


	3. Chapter 3

**PART 2**

"We need to get our hands a little dirty

To make our gardens grow."

_**—Lilies of the Valley,**__ David Byrne_

**Chapter 3**

"Sammy? Sam, come on, man, wake up."

The temptation to keep his eyes closed was almost overpowering. But Dean's voice carried so much weight of authority in his subconscious that Sam found himself responding to it almost on instinct. He turned his head, wincing at the movement, and discovered that the side of his face dragged against worn leather and metal closings. Dean's jacket, the scent of leather and everything that was his brother. He felt the quick rise and fall of Dean's chest.

He reached up and clutched Dean's arm, forcing his eyes open to a second darkness that was blurry and indistinct.

"Fuck. Sam," Dean breathed, bringing his face down close to Sam's so that they almost shared the same air. "You're okay. I got you."

"Dean? What…?"

It was still night. Or early morning. He was so cold. He shook as he clung to Dean, his lungs drawing air but not ever seeming to get enough.

"You hurt?" Dean shifted to his knees, helping him sit with one hand on his chest and the other around his shoulders.

Awareness and memory came flooding back all at once, and Sam jerked upright with a quick glance at the throbbing source of pain in his arm, relieved to see that his shirt sleeve had slipped down to cover the bite.

He sagged back against Dean and shook his head. "Just…" He gestured with one hand in front of his chest as he tried to breathe. "Need a minute."

Dean put a hand on Sam's forehead, then the back of his neck. "Jesus, you're cold," he said. "Let's get you back inside. What the hell happened to you?"

Sam searched for a satisfactory answer but found none. He was so goddamn tired. His thoughts tumbled together like a confused tangle of barbed wire, and he didn't have the energy to try and sort them out. "I don't know," he murmured.

Dean pulled Sam toward him, concern etched into his face. He slid a shoulder under Sam's arm and wrapped his arm around Sam's waist to help pull him to his feet. With Dean bearing most of Sam's weight, they made it back to the room. Sam let himself collapse face-first onto the mattress, shoving his arms up under the pillow and burying his face in it.

He felt Dean's hand on his back, and he pushed his face further into the pillow to stop the tears threatening behind his eyes.

"Sam? Is this an ER situation?" Dean asked in a low voice.

_On the hook for next week._ He couldn't. He _couldn't._ His chest tightened, overwhelmed by the thought of having to put another needle in his arm. He couldn't even remember what it felt like to feel normal, to have energy, to not feel like the slightest movement was an insurmountable uphill climb.

"No," he said, his voice muffled. "No hospital. Dean, please. I just need to sleep."

"Yeah, that's what you said on Thursday. You're kind of scaring me, here. Either you _tell me_ how you ended up lights-out down the street from our room, or I go get the salt."

"It's not anything like that."

"You sound pretty sure."

"Honestly, I was probably just… sleepwalking or something. It's a virus. I'll sleep it off, I'll be fine."

Dean's hand on his back was a warm, heavy weight. Solid and comforting. Sam must have let himself drift, because the next thing he knew was being startled awake again by Dean's voice and a shake of his shoulder.

"Okay, get your ass up, come on," Dean ordered. "There's an urgent care down the street. I'm pulling rank."

* * *

The nurse taking his vitals was pleasant enough, a petite woman with brittle, overly processed hair and too many wrinkles for her age who carried with her the faintest ghost of her most recent smoke break. Sam tried not to notice the way her mascara crinkled when she smiled at him.

She pressed two fingers to his wrist to take his pulse and wrote something on her clipboard. Then she held out a hand toward Sam's arm, gentle and nonthreatening.

"Let me see. Can you roll up your sleeve for me, hon?"

Sam straightened, defensively. "Why?"

"Come on, Sam. I seen this before, you're not gonna shock me. How often do you give blood?"

Feeling trapped, but also somewhat relieved that he had essentially been handed a cover story, Sam slowly undid the button of the cuff on his unbitten arm. Because he wasn't going to show her _that._

She carefully pushed his sleeve up over the puncture wounds inside his arm.

"How often?" she asked again.

"Uh." He hesitated, knowing how foolish he sounded, knowing this was stupid, that it was nothing but slow suicide. He hated _knowing_ it and still having to admit to it. "Every week."

"Okay," she said, keeping the judgment out of her tone, which told Sam that she _had_ seen this before, and that he now fell into a certain category of patient she tended to see in this clinic. Poor, uneducated, desperate. "Sam. That's too often, okay? You've got to give yourself two months in between, or you're gonna make yourself sick. Let me see your other arm," she ordered, holding her hand out to him again.

Sam drew that arm in close to his side, protectively. "It's fine."

"Let's see it. Please."

"I really don't—"

She put her hand on his knee, and he looked up at her, at her kind, concerned eyes. "I'm not gonna hurt you," she said. "But let me check it, okay?"

Sam honestly didn't have the energy to argue. "It's just… it's not what it looks like," he said wearily, reluctantly undoing his other sleeve.

Her sympathetic intake of breath at the sight of the swollen, red bite marks made him look down and grit his teeth.

"Sam."

"It's fine," he said. "I told you, it's not—"

He made a move to pull his arm back but her fingers tightened around it, and she reached for a swab to clean the jagged edges. "I'll give you something for the pain and to keep this from getting infected," she said. "It's not bad, but you'll want to keep an eye on it."

Sam said nothing, just watched the efficiency of her movements as she worked.

"You don't have to stay with him, you know," she said softly. "I can give you a number you can call. A place to go."

It took Sam a moment to realize she was still talking to him. "What…?"

Her lips pressed together in a thin line. "Anyone who's hurting you, Sam. That's not love, you understand me? That's not a relationship, not really. I know what it's like to feel like you don't have any options, but believe me. You don't have to stay."

Sam hid a smile, even though it wasn't funny. He couldn't help thinking that as often as he and Dean had been mistaken for a couple, this was definitely a first. He wondered what Dean's reaction would be if he knew he was being typed as an abusive, controlling lover.

"Dean's—" He almost said 'my brother,' but stopped, realizing that he had just been handed another valuable piece of cover story. "…not like that," he finished.

The nurse nodded, her eyes on the bandage she was placing on his arm. "Just want you to know you have options," she told him. "And you definitely can't give blood more than every two months, okay? If you need me to talk to Dean about that—"

"No!" He said quickly. "No. Don't say anything to him. About any of this."

She patted his knee and picked up her clipboard, turning to go.

Sam suddenly reached out and grabbed her wrist. She looked back at him, surprised and a bit alarmed, and Sam quickly let go, looking apologetic.

"I'm sorry. Wait," he said. "I know I don't have any right to ask you this. You're just going to tell me to stop doing what I'm doing. And you're right. If these were any normal circumstances, you'd be right. But I…"

He decided in that moment to use her sympathies against her, feeling only the slightest twinge of guilt that was quickly pushed down and smothered by his own desperation. "He—he's not going to let me stop. I _don't_ have a way out. And I know…" He paused, hating himself a bit more with every word. "I know there are drugs that can… h-help increase red blood cell production."

She leveled her gaze at him. "You're in this pretty deep, aren't you, Sam?"

"You really don't have any idea."

"Honey." She leaned her hip against the exam table, crinkling the paper. "Those are ESAs that you're talking about. They're not like iron pills, they're injections. They change the way your body works. And no, there's no way in hell I'm going to sneak you out of here with a vial of Procrit and just hope that you don't mess yourself up even worse with it than you already have."

Sam felt his last bit of hope slipping away. "Please," he said through clenched teeth.

"Let me give you a name, someone who can help. Trust me."

"No, you don't understand!" He swiped the air angrily, leaping up off the examination bench. "This isn't something I can just – walk away from! I need—" He reached out blindly, the sudden movement sending the room spinning, the rush of blood pulsing loudly in his ears.

She caught him by the shoulders as his knees buckled and eased him to the chair in the room. "Head between your knees," she instructed. "Dizzy?"

Sam shook his head, flinching at the sharp headache and pressing his fingers into his eyes.

"It's going to get worse," she said bluntly.

He looked up at her, frowning. "I'm okay. Thanks."

"Don't make me read about you in the paper, Sam. Don't be a body they find down by the river."

He tried to force a smile. "That's not going to happen."

He had a feeling it was going to turn out much, much worse than that.

* * *

_To be continued._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Dean stood in the soft, electric glow of the soft drink vending machine outside the main office of the hotel, jostling a soda's worth of coins thoughtfully in his hand, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.

He glanced up, distractedly, and then quickly shoved the coins into his pocket, soda forgotten, immediately recognizing that familiar length of blonde hair and petite frame.

He advanced on her and caught ahold of her arm, spinning her around to face him.

"You want to tell me what you're doing sneaking around here?" he demanded.

"Calm down," Ruby said. "Your brother called me. I'm just here to help, like I keep _telling you."_

Dean's mouth twisted. "Sam called you?"

"I'm looking into something for him."

"Wow, be a little more cryptic why don't you."

"Or, here's an idea. How about you mind your own business." She sneered at him and turned to go.

Dean grabbed her arm and pulled her back, leaning in close to her threateningly. "Sam _is_ my business! Something's not right with him, and now you show up? Call me crazy, but that seems like an awfully big coincidence."

"Yeah, or maybe you could entertain the idea that I'm actually one of the good guys, genius."

"What did Sam tell you?"

Ruby smirked, wrenching her arm away from Dean indignantly. "See, that's funny. Because what you're really asking is why he confides in me and not you."

Dean saw red flash over his eyes, and his fists clenched. "Get out of here. Before I smash your fucking demon face in."

Ruby laughed. "He _can't_ tell you, Dean. That's the irony. But you know, I bet after you've been in Hell for a while, Sam won't even remember all the things he never told you. He won't even remember _you."_

Dean made a move toward her, fist raised in anger, and she skipped back with a little wave, shoving her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and disappearing back into the maze of hotel buildings.

* * *

Sam looked up at him and closed his laptop as soon as Dean came through the door to their room.

Dean frowned. "What was that?"

"What?"

Ignoring Sam's feigned ignorance, he pointed to the closed laptop. "What you were just looking at. Whatever you didn't want me to see, Sam. What was it?"

"No, it's not… Just… you know." Sam quickly stood up and then swayed, putting a hand down on the edge of the table.

Something bitter clawed at the back of Dean's throat. Something was so wrong that he couldn't even name it. He felt left out, lied to, betrayed, and yet underneath it all was a vague, agonizing sense of worry that was quickly building toward outright fear.

The betrayal was far easier to tap into than the fear, much closer to the surface, so he latched on to that.

"I, uh, ran into Ruby just now," he said pointedly, watching Sam for a reaction.

_Go ahead, Sam. Deny it,_ he challenged with his eyes. He _wanted_ the argument. He wanted to fight about something real and concrete, something that he could be right about.

Sam raised his eyebrows, faintly surprised, and then nodded. "Oh," he said.

"What the hell is wrong with you, huh?" Dean demanded. "You've got circles under your eyes that make you look like a cancer patient. You're not acting like yourself._"_

"I'm—"

"Swear to God, Sam, if you tell me you're fine I'm going to lose it. I am."

"What do you want me to say, Dean?"

_"What's going on?"_

Sam looked down, his chin tucked into his chest, his breathing uneven. "Nothing. I—I can't—"

"You can't tell me," Dean finished. "Interesting. Because that's exactly what Ruby said you'd say."

"Dean."

"No, actually, I think we're done here. You're fine. I get it. Whatever's wrong, you don't want my help, so you're fine. As far as I'm concerned, Sam, _you're fine."_

Sam started to bring his hands up in what might have been a gesture of conciliation, but Dean pushed past him striding toward the other side of their room, just as Sam stepped out to partially block his way.

Dean's shoulder collided into Sam, knocking him aside. Sam gasped in pain, clamping a hand over his arm. Just as quickly, his hand snapped back down to his side and his eyes locked on Dean, wide with the knowledge of what he'd just given away.

Dean spun on him. His hand darted out and snatched hold of Sam's wrist, pulling Sam's arm out into the space between them.

"What's this?" he demanded.

Sam yanked back but Dean held on. His hand tightened, fingers digging in with a painful grip.

"Dean, come on. Don't," he pleaded, desperation showing in every feature of his face. "Let go."

"Show me."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, no?" Anger flared across Dean's features with a look that was suddenly so _John_ that it made Sam shrink back. Dean turned Sam's arm over with determined force and pushed up his sleeve.

Sam knew Dean expected to see an injury, probably a stupid mishap with a blade that he'd been too embarrassed to tell his brother about. But the soft, shocked intake of breath told him that Dean hadn't been at all prepared for _this._

Against the unnatural pallor of Sam's skin, darkly discolored yellow and purple bruises stood out like ugly smudges inside his elbow, punctuated by red needle marks.

After a moment, Sam couldn't take the silence anymore. "Dean—"

"What are you _doing,_ Sam?"

The sad, disbelieving tone in Dean's voice broke Sam's heart. He wanted so badly to explain, at least to take away the ugly threat of Hell hanging over Dean's head and make this worth something. But he couldn't. He couldn't lay this on Dean. Dean would take the fall for it, gladly make it his own fault, his own failure. And it wasn't.

Sam pulled his arm back and slid the sleeve back down, covering the marks. Dean's hand hovered numbly in the air for a second before dropping back to his side. Dean was staring at nothing, looking lost. Sam put his hands on Dean's shoulders. "Listen," he said. "I know what this looks like, but you have to trust me. I know what I'm doing."

With that, Dean roared back to life, pushing Sam's hands away and grabbing him roughly by the collar. "Trust you?" he shouted. "Based on what? I'm supposed to be okay with my drug-ass little brother shooting himself full of God-knows-what? I should _trust you?"_

"Dean, I'm not—"

"Do you even know how _not okay_ this is? Are you even 'with it' enough right now to know that?"

Sam bit back on his knee-jerk response, which was to deny, deny, deny. The loss of Dean's respect struck him like a physical punch to the gut.

Dean had _raised_ him, taught him right from wrong, sacrificed everything for him time and again. He had done everything he could to shield Sam from everything wrong with their lives, from Dad's drinking, from the realities of being homeless, sleeping in their car, living on fast food and being left alone in hotel rooms for weeks on end. Sam had never truly felt any of that. Dean had. If anyone had a reason to want to escape into some kind of drug-induced oblivion, it was Dean – but he hadn't. Because Dean looked out for Sammy. The same kid who, in Dean's eyes now, had shit on all Dean's sacrifices by shooting up in truck stop bathrooms, maybe giving blow jobs for crack or any number or other terrible stereotypes or assumptions.

Sam would have given anything to take it all back, to deny it all and offer some sort of proof to the brother he worshipped that he wouldn't _do_ that. But what was the alternative? He needed an explanation for the marks on his arms that didn't involve a deal with a demon and a vampire.

This lie was its own kind of hell, but nowhere near as bad as the one he was keeping at bay for his brother. Of that, he was sure.

"I'm sorry," he said, swallowing all his pride and self-respect. "Please… don't hate me."

Dean let go of his shirt with a ferocity suggesting he was so repulsed by Sam that he couldn't stand to touch him, and he backed toward the door, not meeting Sam's eyes. "Fuck you, Sam."

"Dean—"

"I need to go." The door slammed shut, cutting off his hollow protest, and a moment later he heard the roar of the Impala's engine and the squeal of tires.

* * *

Dean awoke that night to the sound of Sam moving stealthily through their room, obviously trying not to make any noise but not quite succeeding. Dean pretended to sleep, keeping his breath even and heavy, as Sam paused for a moment near the foot of his bed. Then he heard his brother step away and quietly turn the knob of the hotel room door, pulling it closed behind him.

Dean sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. "Dammit, Sam," he cursed softly.

A large part of him wanted to go after Sam, tackle him to the ground and beat the living shit out of him. Instead, he tamped down on his rage and quickly yanked on his jeans and shoved his feet into his boots.

His hand hovered over his Taurus with only a split second of indecision before tucking the gun into the back of his waistband on his way out the door.

He caught sight of Sam walking cautiously along the side of one of the far hotel buildings, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. Dean followed at a distance, footsteps sounding against the deserted blacktop. He stopped when Sam did, at the edge of the hotel lot. Sam put a hand against the far building wall and bowed his head, leaning heavily against it for support, and Dean could see his shoulders rising and falling with effort.

This wasn't his brother. This wasn't Sam. It was all wrong. Sam ate health food, trained harder than he did, and he had always, _always_ prided himself on being strong even as a skinny teenager. It twisted something inside of Dean to see him lean against the building like that. Even if Sam was being stupid, if he was doing this to himself, damned if Dean wasn't going to put a stop to it.

Dean pulled his gun and held it ready, still, waiting.

After a moment, Sam straightened as an older man approached him from the opposite direction. Sam immediately reached into the pocket of his coat and brought something out, which the man took from him. Then he leaned close to Sam and said something with a smirk, and Sam nodded. The man patted the pockets of his blue raincoat, searching for something, and he pulled out a zip-lock plastic bag, which he held out to Sam.

That was good enough for Dean. He cocked the gun and ran toward them, shouting, "Back away from my brother, you son of a bitch!"

Sam jumped and turned toward Dean in shock. "Dean, no!" he shouted. He grimaced, bringing an arm up over the center of his chest and pressing, pressing hard. "Dean!"

The older man dropped the bag and darted around the corner of the building. Dean started to follow at a run, but stopped when he reached Sam. He looked down at the plastic bag on the ground and bent to see what it was.

"Dean, don't," Sam pleaded breathlessly. "You don't know what—_nngh!"_

Sam clutched his chest tighter, dropping to his knees.

"Sammy!"

Dean grabbed his brother's shoulders as another spasm of pain made Sam hug his arm to his chest and double over. "…breathe, can't breathe, God, _hurts,_ Dean…"

"No, no, no, _shit! Sam!"_

With hands that shook, Dean pulled out his phone and called 911.

* * *

_To be continued._


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 3**

"Need someone to bail some water

If we're gonna keep this thing afloat."

_**—Lilies of the Valley,**__ David Byrne_

**Chapter Five**

Sam felt warm. Finally warm, wrapped in a dull, distant numbness where nothing hurt.

And then, noise, pain, and chaos crashed down on him all at once with all the subtlety of shattering glass. His head exploded with excruciating awareness and his back arched, every muscle seizing as an electric current gripped his heart and forced life back into him. He fought it. He hated this part, coming back.

There was so much shouting. So much sound, the sound of sirens and monitors and equipment. Things being done to and around him.

Somewhere in the midst of it all, he could hear Dean's voice. Dean was shouting. Dean was swearing, maybe pleading.

_Dean, make it stop,_ he thought distantly. _Make it stop, let me go._

"Clear!"

Another charge of electricity ripped through him, throwing his head back and lifting his torso from the ground.

* * *

When Sam opened his eyes, the chaos was gone. There was only a white room, a strip of morning sunlight patching through closed blinds, and his brother, asleep upright in a hard, plastic chair.

"Dean," he said. It came out a hoarse whisper. He swallowed, trying to make his voice sound more like his. "Hey."

Dean startled awake and pulled a hand down over his face. "Hey, yourself," he said foggily. "How you doing?"

"What…" Sam frowned, trying to piece together the sequence of events that had brought him there. "What day is it?"

It was the wrong thing to say, obviously, because Dean's face clouded over. "Why? You got someplace to be?" he asked bitterly.

Sam bit his lip and shrugged.

"Sam, you know we've got some things to clear up."

"I know that." He leaned his head back against the pillow and let his eyes fall closed again. When he opened them, Dean was staring at him, his expression unreadable.

"I know you're probably wondering what you missed," Dean said flatly. "Let me fill you in. It was pretty awesome, actually. See, you have to _wait_ for an ambulance, Sammy, after you call one. While your little brother's going into cardiac arrest in a hotel parking lot."

Sam flinched. "God, Dean, I—"

"That gave me some time to kill. So I did a little CPR, tried to keep you alive until the flashy lights showed up. Then you kept flat-lining on the EMTs. Guy named Tim, I think. Good guy, forget his partner's name though."

"Dean."

Dean took a breath and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. "What."

"I'm sorry, okay?"

"No. It's really not okay, Sam."

"Dean, I wasn't…" He reached up, touching the thin oxygen cannula under his nose.

"Leave that," Dean snapped, and Sam dropped his hand back to his lap.

"I'm not taking drugs."

"Yeah, I know," Dean said softly.

"You know?"

"Yeah. They had to run a tox screen because I couldn't tell them what you were taking. I didn't know. I didn't ask you, and you were unconscious…" Dean made a small gesture that made him look so vulnerable, and Sam was suddenly aware of how much of a toll this had taken on his brother. "Only," Dean continued, "come to find out, you weren't actually on _anything."_

Sam nodded, unsure of what to say.

"So why'd you let me think that, huh? Why'd you lie to me?"

Sam looked at his hands, laying limp and foreign on the white sheet over his lap, and ran his thumb over the IV site taped to his arm.

"You know what they _did_ find, though," Dean went on, watching Sam's hands with the same intensity as his brother. "They kept using the phrase dangerously anemic. _Dangerously,_ Sam. You kept—" His voice broke. "It was bad."

"I'm sorry."

"You need to tell me what's going on. What you've been doing to yourself and why. Now."

Sam opened his mouth and then closed it again tightly, visibly swallowing. Tears pooled in his eyes and his jaw jutted forward. For a moment, he looked so goddamn _young_ that Dean almost forgot to be pissed.

"Nothing's adding up, Sam. The bag of needles that guy handed you. It's not for drugs. It's for taking blood. You're taking your own blood. I need to know why. _Why,_ Sam? What are you doing?"

"Saving you," Sam blurted out, not able to hold it in anymore. Tears fell as soon as the words left his mouth, and he wiped them away impatiently. He pulled in a long breath. "Saving you, Dean. From Hell. I… found a way out of your deal. It's a trade. My blood for your soul. I just… didn't expect it to go south the way it did. I didn't think it would be so… hard."

Dean's face was drawn into a frown. "You made a deal. What was it, like, another kind of crossroads deal?"

"Not exactly. He's a demon but he calls himself a broker. Dean, I didn't want you to—"

"Sam, I specifically _told_ you not to try and get me out of this deal because if I don't go to Hell, you drop dead."

"Right, okay. I get that they told you that. But this is a way around that. It really is. Your deal is off as long as I do this."

Dean did a double take. "_Do_ it? Sam, no. You're done. This thing is off, as of now."

"No," Sam said calmly, "It's not. You're not going to Hell because of me. Not when I can stop it."

"Dammit, Sam! Don't you see the big Catch-22 staring you in the face here? If I try and get out of Hell, you die. And this supposed 'deal' you made, it is _going_ to kill you! So apparently, if I don't go to Hell, you die – one way or the other. I don't think you realize how close you actually came."

"It doesn't change anything," Sam said quietly.

Dean reached out and grabbed Sam's arm, twisting it so that the needle marks were in full view between them, making Sam wince. "You are _not_ doing this," he hissed. "This is suicide."

"I have to."

"I'm not letting you."

"Dean, you can't stop me."

"Yeah, Sam, I damn well _can._ If I have to handcuff you to the bed every night, I think I can keep you from sticking a needle in your own arm."

"No, Dean, you don't get it. It's not something I can just back out of! Even if I wanted to."

"What are you talking about?"

Sam swallowed hard, his hand unconsciously moving to the bandage covering the bite mark on his left arm. Dean followed the movement with his eyes, and then stood up, leaning over Sam, and carefully peeled the tape back. Sam didn't stop him. But he looked away so that he didn't have to see the look on Dean's face.

"This is what I think it is?" Dean said in a low, dangerous voice. "Vampire?"

"Yeah. The demon's _client."_

"Jesus _Christ,_ Sam."

"They… attacked me. When one of the deliveries I gave them wasn't right. I'm pretty sure if I ever missed a week, they'd…"

"Come after you."

"Yeah."

"Sam, listen."

Sam looked up and met Dean's eyes. What he saw was the same confident reassurance he'd always found when he'd come to his older brother with a problem that needed a solution, anything that had ever felt too big or too overwhelming to deal with on his own.

"You're not in this alone, okay? We'll figure this out. Together. We'll come up with a way to beat this, you and me. I promise."

For the first time in a long time, Sam felt like he could breathe again. "You think?"

"Believe me, Sam."

* * *

Several nights later, back in their hotel room, Sam fumbled in the dark for his cell phone buzzing loudly on the side table by his bed. He didn't recognize the number. When he pulled open the phone, it was Derril's voice on the other end. Sam immediately sat straight up in bed, all traces of sleep gone.

"Hi there, Sam. Got someone here you might want to say hello to."

Sam eyes automatically went to Dean's empty bed. _No. _He clutched the phone with both hands. _"Where's Dean?"_

"Hey Sammy," came Dean's voice, sounding a bit rough. "Yeah. I lied… said together, didn't I. Shoulda waited for you. Sorry about that."

"Dean! Where are you? What's going on?" Sam said helplessly.

Derril's voice came on the line again. "Sorry, Sam, your brother can't really talk right now. I just wanted you to know he's with me, and he's _fine_. Just how long he stays that way is completely up to you."

"Don't you dare hurt him! Let him go!"

"See, I figured you might need a little extra incentive to play ball after last week, Sam. So this is your incentive. You keep everything calm and on-time between us, and Dean here will get to stay alive. I'll even let you talk to him now and again."

"I swear, if you don't let him go—"

"That's _really_ not the attitude I want to hear from you, Sam. Dean? Talk sense to your brother."

"Dean?" Sam's jaw tightened with fear.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice had an edge to it that Sam didn't like. "Whatever that bastard tells you to do, don't liste—_gaaah!"_

Sam leapt to his feet and shouted in to the phone._ "_Stop it! Don't touch him, I'll kill you!"

He heard Dean cry out again.

"Don't! Don't hurt him! Stop it! You son of a bitch!"

"That _attitude_ again, Sam. You know where that leads."

Sam was shaking so badly he almost couldn't hold the phone to his ear. "Tell me what you want me to do."

"I want you to behave yourself and make your deliveries. On time. No trouble."

"I will. I will! Please, just let Dean go. I'm standing by our agreement."

"Your brother didn't seem to be under that assumption. He seemed to think the terms were negotiable. Didn't you, Dean?"

Sam's hand tightened on the phone as he heard Dean utter another muffled cry. "Please," he begged. "Whatever you're doing to him, _stop."_

Derril laughed. "This is turning out to be an excellent arrangement for all parties involved, Sam. You see, not only is my client exceptionally pleased with _your_ supply, he also happens to like your brother. Dean is going to work out quite nicely as one of our regular contributors."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. "No!"

"See you tomorrow night, Sam. Just keep in mind that if anything goes wrong, these fellas won't hesitate to bleed your brother dry."

* * *

_To be continued._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Bright yellow morning sunlight reflected in a harsh glare off the laminate of the corner table of the coffee shop where Sam sat with his back to the wall, leaving white afterimages streaking his vision. He moved to cover the glare with his elbow, the worn fabric of his hoodie sliding smoothly over the slick surface. He bit his thumbnail, one knee jumping anxiously under the table as he waited.

After a moment, Ruby slid soundlessly into the booth across from him, setting a plate down in front of him on the table with a definitive clink. Sam looked at the plain bagel and the small, plastic tub of cream cheese, and felt his stomach turn over at the thought of eating.

"Don't argue," Ruby said, seeing the look on his face. "I don't want you passing out on me. I have better things to do than hold your hand, so man up, okay? You can go back to eating like an anorexic twelve-year-old after we gank the asshole who has your brother."

Sam set his jaw stubbornly and tore off a piece of bagel with distaste. "You don't have to be a bitch about it," he muttered.

Ruby leaned back in the booth and brought an arm up over the back of the seat. "Speaking of bitch. You know, of all the stupid holes you could have dug for yourself, Sam..."

"Don't. Okay?" Sam's hand hovered over the plate for a second, and she saw the faint tremor there. "I can't do this right now."

Ruby relented. She shifted to the side in the booth and opened her satchel, drawing out two syringes filled with red fluid. "Dead man's blood," she said with a grin. "We're mixing this in with yours tonight. That should put a dent in their enthusiasm."

_"That's_ your plan?" Sam pushed back against the table with both hands. "Just walk in there and hand them contaminated blood, and you think they're not going to notice? You think they're that stupid? Ruby! They'll kill him!" Sam squeezed his forehead, massaging the pounding headache there. He hadn't slept, and now frustration and exhaustion and fear for his brother were threatening to pull him apart.

"Trust me, Sam. Do you trust me?"

"I—yes. I don't know."

"You just make the drop like always and we'll get Dean out. I've got your back."

* * *

He'd done this so many times now, he almost didn't need to think about it.

He _tried_ not to think about it. He tried to shut down, shut out the dark, creeping feelings of shame and guilt, the horrible knowledge that Dean had rushed into yet another dead-end situation to save his pathetic little brother. His fault. All of this. Everything. _Always,_ all his fault.

He tied the length of rubber tubing around his arm like an act of penance and made a fist, flexing it a few times, his heart beating hard and fast.

Too fast. Too hard. Not right.

Dying.

He was going to die.

Panic closed over his mind, blocking out rational thought with the certainty that his heart was going to stop once and for all. That he would die and then they would kill Dean because Sam was weak. Weak and stupid because he hadn't found a way to survive this.

Sweat broke out on his forehead and he gripped his knees, bracing himself and shaking, trying to draw in a full breath.

"Ruby!" he called desperately, not knowing what else to do. He leaned forward, clutching his arms around himself, unable to breathe through the fear that kept ratcheting higher and higher, spiraling out of control.

The bathroom door flew open, and Ruby crouched down to his level sitting on the backs of her heels, pushing his hair back from his face. "Sam!" she commanded. "Sam, look at me. Are you hurt?"

His eyes were wild, his pupils wide. She held the sides of his face still until he focused on her. "Sam?" she said firmly.

"I-I can't… do it. It's too much."

"Yes, you can. For _Dean_, Sam. Sam?" Her fingers tightened on his face. "For Dean."

Sam took a breath and met her eyes.

"That's it," she reassured. "You've got this."

He shook his head. "I'm not—I can't save him, Ruby. Not from this. Not from Hell."

"Don't talk like that. You want me to help you?"

She eased his arm away from his chest and down over his knee, taking his hand and wrapping his fingers closed into a fist inside of hers. Sam watched her, his breathing slowing, growing calmer.

"You want me to help you, Sam?" she asked again, reaching down and taking a needle out of the bag.

Sam nodded and closed his eyes gratefully, reacting only slightly as the needle went into his arm with a surprising gentleness.

* * *

Derril was leaning casually against one of the twisted trees in the small city park. He looked up and smiled warmly as Sam approached from the street. "Sam!" he greeted. "You're on time."

Sam drew himself up to his full height. "I want to see my brother," he said.

Derril raised his eyebrows. "Are you making _demands_ now?"

Sam bit back on a retort, his hands clenching inside his pockets. "I'm here. I have it. I'm on time," he said, forcing his voice to stay level. "I've done everything you asked me to do. Let me see my brother. Please," he added.

Derril walked over to Sam, looking him up and down appraisingly. "Your brother has caused me quite a bit of trouble, you know that, Sam?"

_Good,_ thought Sam, hiding a satisfied smirk.

Apparently he hadn't been able to keep the expression entirely off his face, because Derril leaned in close to him and whispered, "Oh, do you think that's _funny?"_

Sam shook his head, quickly looking down.

"Because I'll tell you what _isn't_ funny. It isn't losing half my inventory to an obnoxious little prick who bursts into my operation demanding that _you_ be let out of a deal that _you_ made. I have costs to recover now, thanks to you. I have people that _I_ answer to. So why don't I let you see what kinds of costs are associated with being an obnoxious little prick?"

Sam drew in his breath sharply as two men – vampires, he guessed – stepped out of the shadows dragging a struggling figure between them.

_"Oh god,_ Dean!"

Dean's head jerked up in response to Sam's voice. "S'mmy?" He was pale, his eyes hooded, and he squinted in Sam's direction.

"Dean, are you okay?"

Dean grunted in answer. "'m fine Sam. Just… makin' new friends."

Sam turned to Derril. "Let him go," he said. "You've made your point."

Derril held up a hand. "No. Not quite," he said, his eyes flashing black. "Everything comes with a price tag, Sam. This just happens to be yours."

He pointed his finger at Dean. An invisible force flung Dean backward, tearing him away from the men holding him, and threw him hard against the trunk of a tree, pinning him there. Dean opened his mouth to scream, writhing in pain, but no sound came out.

"Stop it!" Sam yelled, looking around frantically for Ruby.

Suddenly, a blinding flash of blue light erupted through the lot. Derril shouted and doubled over, and covering his eyes with his arms.

Suddenly released, Dean dropped from where he was being held against the tree, gasping. His legs trembled and folded under him, and he slid the rest of the way to the ground.

With both hands shielding his eyes from the light, Sam ran to where Dean had fallen and crouched beside him, laying a hand protectively on his chest. He looked up, squinting, in time to see Ruby raise both hands and simultaneously plunge both needles of dead man's blood into the necks of the two vampires from behind.

The light grew in intensity all around them. In an instant, he felt Ruby's hand on his shoulder, tugging at his jacket. "Come on!" she shouted. "Get him up, we've got to go!"

"What _is_ that?" Sam shouted back, sheltering his eyes, tears streaming down his face.

Ruby bent down and pulled one of Dean's arms forward, helping Sam get him to his feet so they could carry him between them. "Lilith," Ruby said. "It's Lilith! She's _pissed._ Come on, we've got to get out of here, now, while we can!"

Sam looked back. Ruby was right. He saw Lilith stepping placidly toward Derril with her hand outstretched in a beacon of light.

"Please!" Derril coughed, clutching his throat.

Lilith laughed, tilting her head. _"'Broker?'_ Really? How clever. What a clever little game you must have thought you were playing, bartering with souls that didn't belong to you."

He choked, gasping as he fell to his knees, thick, black smoke pouring from his mouth and pooling on the ground at Lilith's feet. "How… did you…?"

"A little birdie told me," she said with a mockingly sweet smile. "Whispered it right into my ear." Then she closed her hand into a fist, and Derril wailed in agony, finally collapsing in a heap as the last of the smoke flickered and smoldered into ash.

Ruby shook Sam's shoulder, drawing his attention back to her. "Come on!" she hissed.

"Sam."

Sam froze. The deeply melodic voice resonated inside him, and he found himself unable to move or call out. A tall figure stepped into his path, blocking his retreat, and looked directly into his eyes.

And smiled.

Sam's blood ran cold.

"You belong to me, Sam," the vampire said, taking Sam's chin in his hand and lifting his face up. "You're what I paid for. You're mine, and I don't intend to lose you."

Sam's heart pounded frantically. He was paralyzed in the vampire's gaze, caught like prey.

"You're coming with me, Sam," he said, his voice low and oddly persuasive, and Sam knew he would go wherever he was told to do, that he had no choice. Whatever hold this creature had over him, he was powerless against it.

And then suddenly, a long, silver blade slid through the air in front of him, cleanly severing the vamp's head.

Sam watched it fall and hit the ground with a soft thud, as if it were all happening in slow motion, then staggered back a few steps. He looked up to see Dean clutching the machete in both hands, breathing hard.

Never had one word felt so inadequate, but he said it anyway because he meant so much more, and he knew Dean knew it. "Thanks," he said.

Dean looked up at him, confirmation showing in his eyes that he understood, and nodded. He glanced warily in Lilith's direction. "It's not often I agree with Ruby, but–"

"No. Right. Come on!"

* * *

_To be continued._

_A/N: I mentioned to a couple reviewers that I planned to make this the last chapter, but... nope! One more to go. And no cliffhanger this time! :-) Thanks to everyone who is reading and reviewing, I really appreciate your comments!_


	7. Chapter 7

**Epilogue**

_"Sam."_

Sam bolted awake, gasping, drenched in sweat, fighting free of the memory of a voice that invaded his mind and stripped him of his will, hands that held him down, and the graze of teeth against his skin. He shuddered, listening to his own heart beat loudly in his ears and Dean's quiet breathing in the next bed as the nightmare faded.

The bite on his arm burned and throbbed a rhythm of pain. He flung the covers aside and went into the bathroom, turning on a light that was too bright at first but still infinitely better than fumbling in the dark. He filled a cupped hand with water and drank from it, running a dripping hand over his face.

Gingerly, he peeled back the bandage on his arm, wincing at the red, swollen skin surrounding the still-healing wound.

"Let's see that."

He looked up, startled, to see Dean standing in the doorway of the bathroom.

"Didn't mean to wake you," Sam mumbled apologetically.

"You didn't."

"Can't sleep?"

Dean shrugged. He inspected Sam's arm and then went and got the tube of antibiotic ointment. He dabbed it on, smearing it over the bite on Sam's arm. "This looks worse. You been putting this crap on it? Sam, man, you gotta learn to take better care of yourself, you can't always expect me to..."

The words, the full, unspoken meaning of them, dropped like lead between them.

"Sorry, I didn't mean…" Dean trailed off again, unwilling to say what was suddenly staring them both in the face.

"I suppose that's why you're not sleeping," Sam challenged.

Dean didn't answer. He focused all his attention on affixing a new pad of gauze over Sam's wound. "You running a fever?" he asked, laying his cooler hand flat against Sam's forearm. "You're hot."

"You can talk to me about it."

"Nothing to talk about."

"I wish you'd—"

Dean huffed impatiently. "You wish what? That I'd grow a set of tits so we could have a good cry together? Come on, Sam."

"Fine, but you know I'm not going to stop trying to find a way out of it, right?"

Dean didn't say anything for a long moment. Then he looked up from bandaging Sam's arm, earnestness showing. "Don't you ever do anything stupid like this again. You hearing me?"

"Yeah... right." Sam's voice took on a harsh, bitter tone. "You're one to talk, Dean. You take every opportunity to throw your life away. You threw your damn _soul _away, Dean. You mean to tell me that wasn't stupid… or reckless, or…"

"No, it was probably one of the saner things I've ever done." Sam opened his mouth to argue, but Dean cut him off. "Taking care of you is what I do, Sam. It's what I _have_ to do. We all gotta die someday."

"Well, what if that was _my_ 'someday?'"

"I couldn't let that happen."

"Dean—"

"Listen, just… shut up, okay. Can we not argue? It's done. There's no going back, and there's no undoing it, so I wish you'd just stop. Stop trying to find new and creative ways to get yourself killed so I can stop worrying about you 24/7."

Sam sighed and shook his head, leaning back against the bathroom wall and dragging a hand through his hair.

He realized he felt hot and shaky. Dean was right, he could feel the fever taking hold. Dean had probably known it before his own body even had a chance to register it.

He wondered how his brother did that. How he managed to read him so well.

"Is there ibuprofen in the bag?" Sam asked at length.

Of course, he knew there was. The look Dean gave him let him know that Dean knew it, too. But he smiled as he placed two little, red pills into Sam's hand, poured him a glass of water, and folded up a wet washcloth to lay on Sam's forehead. And maybe he also smiled at the fact that Sam, for once, just nodded in thanks and let Dean do what he did best.

Because Sam actually wasn't too bad at reading Dean, either.

* * *

_End._


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